


wishing for rain as i stand in the desert

by fadeastride



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, ngozi joSSING MY SHIT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: Vegas is a bullshit city, but Kent doesn't hate it the way he used to. It's not home, but it's close.





	wishing for rain as i stand in the desert

**Author's Note:**

> edit 7/5: aPPARENTLY ao3 ate some of my coding, so that's fixed now. Whoops.
> 
> I can't believe I broke up my otp to write this.
> 
> Also, I wrote most of this before 3.25 so Ngozi fucked up all my shit, it's fine, it's whatever.
> 
> Shoutout to Alex for looking this over and making sure it was sort of coherent. Shoutout to my grandmother for the bomb green beans recipe.
> 
> Title from "A Drop in the Ocean" by Ron Pope.
> 
> P.S. - Happy birthday, Kent!

Vegas is a bullshit city, but Kent doesn't hate it the way he used to. It's not home, but it's close.

Sometimes Kent thinks it only feels like it could be home because Jeff and his wife all but adopted him when they realized that he was not, in fact, a successful adult. And Alicia is an absolute goddess, which is how Kent finds himself in this bakery on Charleston on a Saturday in October. He knows she lives for their chocolate pecan pie, and it’s the least he can do for her birthday.

There’s a blond kid bustling behind the counter, wiping things down and tidying up. He looks up with a smile that evaporates the second he lays eyes on Kent. His face is so familiar and Kent wonders if they hooked up and then Kent never called him back or something.

“Mr. Parson,” the kid says, Southern accent strong, and _oh_. “I’d appreciate it if you’d walk right back out that door so I can pretend I never saw you.”

Kent has no idea what Jack’s boyfriend is doing in Las Vegas. He wants to ask, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “I need to buy a pie for my friend’s wife.”

He’s never seen such sweet features look so deadly.

“I’m inclined to refuse you service.”

“How would your manager feel about that?” It’s a dick move, but Kent’s never claimed to be anything but a dick.

The kid (his name tag says “Eric”) grins at him, this sharp thing that’s all teeth. “Oh, bless your heart,” he says. “I _am_ the manager.”

Kent sighs. “Of course you are. Look,” he says, leaning his elbows on the counter. “I know we’re not friends.”

Eric snorts.

“But I really need this pie. It’s Ali’s favorite, and it’s her birthday, and I just want to be able to give her this. You sell me the pie, I’ll leave you alone.”

It feels like a faceoff, the staredown happening over this counter, but Eric eventually relents. “What kind of pie?”

Before Kent leaves with his perfectly-folded box, he stuffs a fifty into the tip jar. He hears Eric start to protest, but he hauls himself outside and lets the door slam shut behind him.

The thing about Kent, though, is that sometimes? Sometimes he lies.

He knows he told Eric that he’d leave him alone, but he also knows that this kid and Jack either are or were a thing, and he wants to know what the fuck happened there. There’s got to be a reason he’s in Vegas, and Kent wants to know it.

It’s not like he can just _ask_ , though. He doesn’t know if Eric can throw a punch, but he certainly doesn’t want to find out.

The plan is to maybe get Eric to be his friend. He’s not sure if it’s going to work, but he knows the first step is to apologize.

When Kent shows up a week later, the line for the bakery is five people deep. He uses his time waiting to watch Eric work.

Eric is amazing. He’s a tornado, pulling baked goods from the case and slipping them into bags and boxes, ringing everything up, while charming customers with every breath. His smile is infectious, and Kent even sees the cranky-looking old biddy smile back at him when he hands her a bag of scones.

It sits in Kent’s ribs that Eric’s smile falls as soon as he sees him.

“Hey,” Kent says, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Can I, uh. Can I talk to you?”

“We’re talking,” Eric says, curt.

Kent winces. “I meant in private.”

Eric unties his apron and throws it on the back table. “Leah! I’m taking my ten, come watch the front.” He gestures for Kent to come around the counter.

Kent follows.

They stop in what must be Eric’s office, judging by the way Eric sits himself authoritatively in the chair.

“What do you want, Parson?”

“I wanted to apologize. For that night.”

He isn’t sure how to feel about how surprised Eric looks.

“At the Haus?”

“Yeah. I know you heard what I said to Jack. And I wanted to apologize. I don’t. I don’t mean to be an asshole. But sometimes I do and say shit that I know I shouldn’t. Jack’s taken the brunt of that over the last ten years. I truly regret what I said to him that night. I know that doesn’t change the fact that I said it, but. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

Eric’s looking at him, considering. “Does Jack know you’re sorry?”

“That depends on if he checks his voicemail. It’s not like he answers my calls.”

“Well,” Eric says, “I don’t know if it’s my place to forgive you, and I’m not sure if I do anyway.”

Kent nods. “That’s fair.”

“But maybe I don’t hate you anymore.” He says it with the barest hint of a smile, for which Kent is thankful.

“I’ll take it,” he says.

“Besides,” Eric says with feigned indifference. “It's not like I know anyone else in this godforsaken place.”

Kent doesn't say, “You don't even know me.” Instead, he starts dropping in at the bakery randomly, hoping Eric’s there.

He usually is. He seems to work an awful lot.

He's there when Kent drops by after his early morning runs, there when Kent shows up around lunchtime, there when Kent comes to get an afternoon snack he shouldn't be eating.

If it isn’t busy, Eric will sit at one of the tables with him and split a piece of pie, and they’ll talk about their days or some of Eric’s weirder customers. If it _is_ busy, Kent will order something small and put entirely too much money in the tip jar when Eric isn’t looking.

Either way, it flows easily, this tentative almost-friendship. Kent’s sure neither of them completely trusts the other, but it doesn’t seem to keep them from enjoying each other’s company.

One morning, Eric invites Kent into the back to keep him company while he makes things to replenish for the lunch crowd. After that, Kent hops up on a prep table most days, banters with Eric while Eric mixes and flours and rolls.

When he finally weasels Eric's phone number out of him, Kent starts blowing his phone up on the regular. He sends pictures of Jeff making dumb faces, or the aftermath of Arnie’s latest prank, or the $23 burger he finds in New York. Eric responds with pictures of pies fresh out of the oven, or his face covered in flour because the bag exploded when he tried to open it, or of Kent's own face on SportsCenter with comments like “That snipe was INSANE!”

It takes maybe three weeks for Jeff to plop down next to him on the plane and say, “I don't mind if you have a boyfriend, but I feel like I'm being replaced.” He's smiling when he says it, but Kent realizes he hasn't been to Jeff's place since he apologized to Eric.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Kent says automatically. “He's. Well, I guess we're friends now?”

“You guess?” Jeff teases.

“He used to hate me.” He can see Jeff open his mouth to question it. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

Jeff nods and doesn't say anything for a minute. They've been friends long enough that Kent knows he's thinking about his next move.

“Well,” he says finally. “If I'm going to get replaced by this guy-”

“I'm not replacing you!”

“-can I at least meet him?”

It doesn’t sound like the worst idea, so Kent texts Eric _Jeff wants to meet you._

The little dots appear almost immediately. _what's his favorite kind of pie?_

Kent smiles at the screen. _banana cream, no nuts _,__ he texts back. “You're gonna love him,” he tells Jeff.

“He’s keeping you out of my hair, so I already like him.” Jeff’s an asshole.

Somehow, they manage to coordinate their off day with one of Eric's. Kent picks him up outside the bakery around 11 and drives him to Jeff's house, which isn't as big as Kent's but is still a giant monstrosity in the middle of the desert.

The door swings open to reveal Jeff in his nice jeans and a button-down, the same one he wore when he met Kent’s mom. Kent rolls his eyes.

“Swoops, this is Eric.”

Eric sticks his hand out, but Jeff envelops him in a hug anyway.

“So,” he says when he lets go. “You’re the one who’s replacing me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kent mutters and Eric laughs brightly.

“Well, I don’t know about _that_. Kent and I are still very new friends.”

It’s true. There’s so much about Eric that Kent knows he doesn’t know, and so many things Kent’s never mentioned about himself to Eric.

“You say that now,” Jeff says, wry smile on his face. Eric shuffles his foot in obvious discomfort.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” He grabs the box out of Kent’s hands. “I made you a pie.”

Jeff opens it. “Oh my god. Is this banana cream? You can have him if you keep bringing me pie.”

“Hey!” Kent protests and Eric’s laugh rings out bright.

They end up in the game room, sitting on the couch, eating pie straight out of the tin and getting murdered by Eric at Mario Kart.

“I lived in a literal frat,” Eric says. “I could beat you both while blackout drunk.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow at him. “I want to see that. Not right now, because it’s noon on a Tuesday. But I’ve got to see it.”

“Bro,” Kent says. “The next time the guys are over, Eric’s gotta come. We’re gonna get you trashed on way better shit than tub juice.”

“That’s really not hard to do,” Eric says, teasing lilt to his voice

“What do you work Thursday? We’ve got a game, but we could have some guys over after.”

Eric flips through his phone. “I’m actually off Thursday. And I could switch for Leah’s closing shift on Friday, so I can sleep in.”

“You should come to the game.” Kent’s not sure why he suggests it, but once it’s out of his mouth, it feels right.

“I. I really can’t afford-”

“Holy shit, dude,” Jeff says. “You really think we’d make you buy tickets?”

“I mean, no, but-”

“Good, because we wouldn’t. Parse, ask Sarah tomorrow about getting him into the box. He can sit with Ali.” He turns to Eric. “My wife is way too good for me; you’ll love her.”

Eric is bright pink and turning his hands over in his lap, but his smile is genuine. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, yeah, I’ll come.”

If Kent and Jeff crow loudly, it’s no one’s business but their own.

The game is fucking outstanding. They beat the Schooners 5-1 and Jeff gets a Gordie Howe hat trick, because he’s Kent’s favorite human.

Kent’s never tried to end postgame through sheer force of will before, but he really wants to change and get the hell out of here.

He’s still buttoning his shirt when he and Jeff come out the end of the tunnel to meet Ali and Eric. Eric is wearing an Aces shirt that Kent can almost guarantee he did not own two days ago.

Jeff grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around. “Yes!” he yells. “I am a king among men!”

Eric’s wearing Jeff’s shirt, because of course he is. Jeff is the best.

“I hope you’re taking that off before we get to my place or the guys will give both of you so much shit all night,” Kent warns.

“We’re going to your place? I thought we were going to Jeff’s?”

“Hell no,” Ali says. “I’m going to bed, I don’t want to listen to a bunch of inebriated manchildren yell at a video game.”

Jeff leans over to whisper conspiratorially. “She’s just mad that we won’t let her play with us because she’s too good.”

“I _am_ too good. Now go to Kent’s and leave me alone.” She shoos them off with a laugh.

Eric does, in fact, have an extra shirt in his messenger bag, which he changes into in the passenger seat of Kent’s car. It’s just a white tee, but the sleeves and front pocket are a cornflower blue ditsy print. They haven’t been friends long, but Kent thinks it looks exactly like what he’d expect Eric to wear outside of work, this very soft pastel bro kind of style. It suits him.

“Ali’s great,” he says as he pulls the shirt over his head. “She’s so funny, and kind of mean, but in a nice way? Does that make sense?”

“Jeff’s punching way out of his weight class with her. She’s who I was buying that pie for the first time I came in.”

“I can see why you were so dead-set on getting it. She’s wonderful.”

They pull into the gated neighborhood where Kent lives. Kent's house is stupid, and Eric tells him as much.

“Why does everyone here landscape with giant rocks?”

“Uh, because who wants to pay for the upkeep of grass in Satan’s armpit? Also, grass is a social construct anyways.”

“Oh, _Lord_.” Eric rolls his eyes so hard it looks almost physically painful and Kent snorts.

There's a handful of overpriced cars parked on the street and Jeff's car is in what has become his own spot in the driveway.

A bassline vibrates all the way out to the street from inside the house, because apparently Jeff has already let himself and the other guys in.

“Jeff has his own key,” Kent explains to an amused Eric. “Sometimes I need, uh, adult supervision, even if I don't want it.”

He doesn't look at Eric when he says it, fidgets with the band of his watch instead, and he can tell the moment Eric gets it because he feels a warm hand wrap around his wrist.

“Let's go inside, yeah?” Eric says, pulling him gently toward the door.

“Eric!” a voice booms from the kitchen as soon as they pass the threshold. Jonesy emerges with a beer in each hand, presses one into Eric's open palm. “Rumor has it that you can whoop my ass at Mario Kart with, like, both hands tied behind your back or some shit.”

Eric pops the cap off with his bare hand. “The rumors are true.”

“Did you just -” Arnov is gaping. “That's not a twist off, what the fuck.”

“Party tricks,” Eric says with a grin. “You should see what I can do to a cherry stem.”

Kent's never seen six giant hockey players fall in love with the same person all at the same time before.

And Eric basks in it. The guys ply him with beer until he’s loose and languid, laughter spilling out of him easily, and then Arnie puts a controller in his hands.

The rumors are, in fact, true. Eric should be too busy laughing and drinking to play at all, but he slaughters everyone on Rainbow Road _twice_ , like it’s _nothing_.

“Holy shit,” Jeff breathes when Eric wins again.

“Bro, it has been an honor having you hand me my own ass,” Lindy says. He looks a little awestruck.

Sometime around one in the morning, Eric yawns. “Y’all, it’s been fun, but I think it’s time for me to get an Uber and go home to die.”

“You wanna stay here?” Kent asks as he gathers empty bottles from the coffee table. “There’s clean sheets in the guest room.”

“Let’s see,” Eric says. “Spend twenty bucks to die in my own bed, or stay here and die in a bed that’s probably bigger for free. I choose free.”

“Asshole,” Kent says, but he’s laughing. “Okay, the rest of you motherfuckers need to get out of my house so the High King of Mario Kart can get his beauty sleep.”

“I promise you now, I will not be beautiful in the morning.”

Kent throws a water bottle at him. “Don’t puke on my furniture.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Eric says with a salute and Kent flips him off.

“Come on, everyone say goodnight.”

The guys filter out slowly, giving Eric fist bumps and hugs on the way out the door, until Kent and Eric are the only people left.

Under the bathroom sink, Kent finds a spare toothbrush that Ali must have bought at some point because he sure as hell didn’t buy it. He ruffles Eric’s hair before he heads down the hall to his own room.

Kent doesn’t really get drunk, not anymore, so he wakes up just fine in the morning. He feeds Purrs first, sets the dish by the bed because she’s going to hide in there for at least two more hours because fuck Kent for bringing a bunch of loud dudes over, basically. He’s back in the kitchen, coffee maker whirring away, trying to find something guest-appropriate for breakfast when Eric wanders in.

He’s wearing Jeff’s shirt again, and a pair of black boxer briefs. He’s barefoot and his hair is a whirlwind and Kent thinks maybe he’s never seen anyone look so cute in his life.

“You’re adorable,” he says before he can stop himself.

Eric looks at him out of one bleary eye. “Coffee,” he croaks, and Kent laughs.

“You’re miserable, aren’t you?” He pours a mug and sets it in front of Eric.

“I’ve been worse. Cream?”

Kent shakes his head. “I don’t use it. I’ve got some sugar, though?”

“No cream, ugh. You’re just like Jack.”

It settles in the silence and Eric’s face contorts.

“Sorry. I just mean. Nevermind. Sugar would be great.”

Kent doesn’t remember going to the pantry to get the bag, just runs on autopilot until he puts the bag on the counter.

It’s the first time either of them have mentioned Jack, and Kent feels stifled by the weight of it, feels it worse than he has in a while.

Today is probably a good day to call Sarahi. Maybe after Eric leaves.

“You want eggs?” he asks, trying to shift this back to some semblance of normalcy. Eric grunts something that sounds affirmative.

So Kent makes eggs and they don't talk about it, Eric nursing his coffee like it might save him.

“I'll drive you home after breakfast, if you want,” Kent offers.

“You don't have to do that.”

Kent frowns. “I want to.”

“Oh.” Eric looks surprised, like he's not one of Kent's best friends these days. “Yeah, okay.”

Eric lives in a marginally shady apartment in Henderson. He waves at Kent as he trudges toward his building’s door and Kent waits until he’s inside to pull away.

It feels important that the guys like Eric so much, because Kent hasn’t made a friend this easily in his entire life. It’s weird, but he finds himself hoping that Eric sticks around for a while.

Some days, Kent takes a detour on his early morning run and passes by the bakery. He’ll press his face to the window until Eric comes out to swat him with a towel and scold him for smudging up the glass.

On the mornings when Eric doesn’t have to be at the bakery at four, Kent will drive to his place and they’ll run together. It’s November and it’s six in the morning and it’s still warmer than Kent wants it to be.

“God abandoned this place,” he says one day, pushing sweaty hair off his forehead. “Just up and fucking left it.”

“At least it’s a dry heat.”

Kent groans. “Why do people always  _say_ that?”

“Georgia, remember? It’s about this warm there right now, but it’s like three times the humidity. Always feels like you’re running in a swimming pool.”

“God abandoned that place, too,” Kent grouses.

“Don’t let those God-fearing Georgia Baptists hear you say that.”

“I do what I want.” Kent slows his pace a little. “Quarter mile to your place. We made it.”

“I hope you’re hungry, because I’m making waffles when we get back.”

“Waffles!” Kent yells, focusing all of his remaining energy into a burst of speed that gets him to Eric’s front door in an amount of time that must be a personal record.

Eric’s laughing as he unlocks the door. “I’m showering first, you animal. No one wants sweaty pancakes. You can shower while I make the batter and heat the iron.”

Kent starts pulling dresser drawers open, grabbing underwear and a shirt and a pair of shorts before throwing them at Eric, who scrambles to catch them. “That’s fine. Go, shower, quick, let’s goooo.” He waves his hands to shoo Eric into the bathroom.

Kent’s never been so thankful for hockey players’ ability to take lightning-fast showers, because Eric reappears in the kitchen in little more than ten minutes.

“Your turn!” he announces, and Kent tears past him with his own change of clothes.

When he gets out, he can smell the divinity that is freshly made waffles and pure maple syrup.

“Oh my god, yeah,” he says as he takes a seat in one of the two little chairs Eric has situated around his tiny kitchen table. “Waffle me.”

The waffles are spectacular, and Kent thinks he could eat a dozen of them if the team nutritionist wouldn’t beat the shit out of him.

He looks around the kitchen as he chews, takes in the tiny apartment.

“Huh,” Kent says around a mouthful of waffles. “You don’t have a dishwasher?”

“Where the hell would one put a dishwasher in this shoebox of an apartment, Mr. Parson?”

Kent looks around. “How do you bake with this little counter space?”

Eric’s face is borderline murderous. “I don’t. I use the kitchen at work.”

“Huh,” he says again. “You know, you can use my kitchen if you want? I don’t have, like, mixers or pans or anything, but god knows I don’t use my kitchen for anything but smoothies and pasta.”

“I will take you up on that, don’t play with me.”

“I’m serious! Come over, meet my cat. She’s a princess and she’ll probably hate you, but you can meet her.”

“Since when do you have a cat?”

“Since seven years ago.”

Eric waves a bite of waffle accusingly. “Where was she the night we were all over?”

“You really think my precious baby wants to be around a bunch of loud-ass, smelly motherfuckers? No way.”

Eric stops chewing to think. “You guys get back from your road trip on Monday, right?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Can I come over on Tuesday? I’ve been trying to perfect this apple cranberry pie for the holidays, but something about the ratios still isn’t quite right.”

“I want to eat this pie, so yes.”

Kent’s not expecting Eric to show up on Tuesday with a heavy box of kitchenware and a bright red Kitchenaid mixer but, in all fairness, he probably should have been expecting it.

He carries the mixer inside as Eric struggles behind him with the giant box.

“What did you bring?” he asks.

“Oh, only the essentials.”

“Right.”

Purrs is lying in front of the kitchen sink, looking like the fluffy goddess she is.

“Hey, baby,” he coos as he sets the mixer on the counter. “Eric, this is Purrs.”

Eric’s mouth twists into a grin. “Is that a play on Parse?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmhmm. Hi there, sweetheart,” Eric says, squatting down to her level. “Aren’t you gorgeous?” He sticks his hand out. Purrs eyes him for a minute before getting up to sniff him.

Then, to Kent’s absolute amazement, she rubs her head on his hand, stilling to let him scratch her cheeks.

“What the fuck. She hates everyone. She barely likes me most of the time.”

Eric hums, and that’s not a fucking answer.

“That’s not fair, man.”

Eric just shrugs. “Do you mind if I take over a cupboard?”

Kent opens one to reveal its bare insides. “Go for it.”

He sits on the counter while Eric works, just like at the bakery, occasionally handing over a rolling pin or a spatula. He swings his legs like a kid just to see Eric roll his eyes in fake annoyance.

“I wish I knew how to cook,” he says. “My mom wasn’t exactly the best in the kitchen, though, and it’s not like we had a bunch of free time. She worked a lot to pay for my hockey, and it’s not like my dad was around to help out.”

The tip of Eric’s tongue is peeking past his lips the way it does when he’s thinking hard about something.

“I could teach you,” he says finally. “If you still want to learn.”

“Really? Shit, yeah, of course I do. The older guys always act like I’m such a manchild for still having a delivery service.”

“That’s because you are,” Eric says and Kent squawks in indignation. “We'll start soon, but I make no promises about being a good teacher until after the holidays. I’m gonna be pulling double shifts at the bakery until Thanksgiving day and I’ll be living on Hot Pockets and McDonald’s.” He shudders. “God bless overtime paychecks, though.”

Hot Pockets and McDonald’s are great and Kent wishes he could eat more of both of them, so he doesn't know what Eric is bitching about.

The first thing Eric teaches him to make is spaghetti Bolognese because “every adult should know how to make a solid pasta sauce from scratch.” Kent likes the jarred stuff just fine, doesn't understand why someone would take the time to make it when he can just hit the 3-for-$5 at the store down the street, but whatever. Eric sends him to the grocery store with a list, which sucks, because going to the grocery store sucks, but Kent’s obviously not going to make him pay for the ingredients.

He's got some of the stuff, so the grocery run isn't too bad, but he does still need the fresh vegetables for it. It all costs a lot more than Prego, but Eric swears up and down that they're not even in the same league.

Eric comes over before the game against the Flyers with a well-loved Dutch oven and a pair of aprons.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together. “The first step is assembling our ingredients. Gotta make sure we have everything cuz nothing's worse than getting halfway into something and having to run to the store.”

He throws an apron at Kent. “Put that on. No laundry fiascos today.”

They sort out all the ingredients, line them up on the counter in order of use. The task of chopping the onions and carrots falls to Kent, whose knife skills are barely passable at best. It takes him longer to chop than it should, but Eric only chirps him a little bit. Butter and oil go into the pot with the veggies and Kent keeps a careful eye as they start to brown.

They move around each other clunkily, bumping shoulders and hips, Eric swatting him with a tomato sauce-covered spatula. When it comes time to add the wine, Eric rolls his eyes because Kent bought a $17 bottle of Pinot Grigio.

“You know you could have bought a $4 bottle and it would have been fine, right?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to cook with a wine you wouldn’t drink by itself.”

“Touche, Parson.”

It takes roughly two hours for the sauce to cook down enough that Eric is happy with it, by which point Kent’s stomach is gurgling loudly.

One bite proves it was worth the wait.

“Oh my lord,” Kent moans. “Oh my god, I’m never buying store stuff again. This is unreal.”

“I told you,” Eric says before shoveling a giant forkful into his mouth with no grace whatsoever.

Kent eats more than he probably should, but it’s so good that he doesn’t want to stop. They toss the leftovers in the fridge for Kent’s pregame meal the next day and Kent flops on the couch.

“Thank you for learning me a thing.”

Eric perches on the arm. “We’ve gotta work on your knife skills, but you’re welcome.”

They sit like that for a while, talking about the Flyers’ PK and digesting. They carpool to the rink after, because Kent hassled Eric into coming to another game.

The guys who know Eric are amped to see him again, slapping him on the back or hugging him or, in the case of Arnie, picking him up off the ground entirely.

The guys who don't know Eric are curious about this obviously-not-straight kid that Kent's towed into the locker room. Most of the guys know about Kent, but Kent's also never brought anyone around before.

Jensen sidles up to Kent and whispers, “So, like, why does your boyfriend look like you?”

Kent looks scandalized. “First off, not my boyfriend. Why can't two queer people exist in the same room without straight people assuming they're banging, Jesus. Second, what the fuck? I realize we're both hot blonds, but I've got like four inches and forty pounds on him.”

“Three and twenty five, if I'm feeling generous, which I'm not,” Jensen says with a laugh before ducking out of the trajectory of Kent's fist.

The Aces absolutely murder Philly. Kent would feel bad if he were the kind of person to feel bad about things like that.

Eric's there in the tunnel after the game, ready with high fives and fist bumps and a hug for Jeff. There's color high in his cheeks and he's laughing and Kent is thankful for Eric's presence in his life.

It’s so kind of Eric to do the things he does, to be Kent’s friend, even on days when Kent isn’t sure he deserves it. He thinks there’s got to be a way to show how much he appreciates everything.

Being the captain of a Stanley Cup-winning NHL team has its perks, and Kent has taken advantage of almost all of them at one point or another.

This is the first time he’s asked Dave for permission to bring an outsider onto the ice outside of normal practice hours. Dave’s looking at him with one eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk so good Kent wishes his own were as effective.

“What,” Dave says, “practice isn’t long enough for you, you gotta bring in someone else to train you?”

“He’s a friend,” Kent explains. “He used to play, and I don’t think he’s been on the ice in a while. He’s never actually said that he misses it, but. I’m pretty sure he does.”

Dave runs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Wow. I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

“Shut up, I know. He’s just. He’s a good dude. I don’t know how else to say thank you for that.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age, Kenny. Okay, yeah, you can have the ice for a couple hours. I’ll give maintenance a heads up that they’re gonna need to come in before practice tomorrow.”

People having to work overtime because of him is not a thing he’s ever considered before. He doesn’t know why he blurts out, “Pay them out of my salary,” but he’s assuming that’s Eric’s influence, too.

He texts Eric on the way to his car.

_i’m picking u up at 830 tomorrow_

**ok?**

_dress warm_

**kent parson where are you taking me?**

_it’s a secret. be ready._

**i don’t trust you**

_:) :) :)_

The next morning, Kent knocks on Eric’s door at exactly 8:30, because Kent’s mother did teach him manners, despite what some of the guys might say.

Eric’s wearing a heather-grey henley and the softest looking scarf Kent’s ever seen.

“It’s 74 goddamn degrees out, I don’t know where I’m going dressed like this,” Eric grumbles as he locks the door.

“Quit yapping, you’ll like it. Get in the car.”

When Kent pulls into the players’ lot, he knows Eric figures it out.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, Kent.”

And, look, Kent’s not a creep, but he definitely checked the size of Eric’s shoes when he was in the bathroom one night. He also definitely ordered Eric a sweet new pair of skates, because what is the point of a multi-million dollar contract if you can’t buy people cool shit?

“There’s a box in the trunk for you,” he says, as nonchalant as he can manage when he feels like his blood cells are vibrating in his veins. He wants Eric to enjoy this, wants it so bad his chest aches with it.

Eric scrambles out of the car and waits for Kent to pop the trunk.

“Oh my god,” Kent hears and he gets out to stand by Eric.

“Oh my god,” Eric says again. “Oh, Kent, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

Eric throws his arms around Kent’s waist and presses his cheek into his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, and his voice is thick. “They’re perfect.”

“You haven’t even opened the box yet.”

“Don’t care. They’re perfect.”

“C’mon,” Kent whispers, smoothing a hand over Eric’s hair. “Let’s give ‘em a whirl.”

It’s been a while since Kent’s been on this ice without his team - since Nashville bounced them out of the playoffs in June, his brain oh-so-helpfully provides.

They sit in the home box and tug their skates on. He watches as Eric laces his carefully, pulling them just right so everything lays flat.

“So, uh, surprise part two. I watched some tape from your senior year to make a, well, an educated guess.” There’s a bucket of pucks and pair of sticks leaning against the boards. Kent grabs them both and hands the slightly shorter stick to Eric.

Eric reaches for it. “You had a stick made for me?” His voice is quiet, almost reverent.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, it’s got your name, see?” He points at the handle, where it says E. BITTLE

“Who are you and what have you done to Kent Parson?”

“The real question is what have _you_ done to Kent Parson?”

The flush that spreads across Eric’s face is fierce, but he steps onto the ice and pushes off before Kent can comment on it.

“Get those pucks out here and let’s do this,” Eric calls to him.

Kent dumps a few on the ice and picks one to skate out to where Eric is waiting. He’s not exactly protecting it, but he’s still not expecting Eric to strip it right off his stick and dart away, stopping near the blueline for some of the sickest dangles Kent’s ever seen. The kid’s got soft hands.

They run drills for the better part of an hour, just some standard shit, but Eric is honestly better than Kent was prepared for. It feels like Eric always knows where he is, could make these flawless passes with his eyes closed. And he’s fast, skating actual circles around Kent sometimes.

“Geez,” Kent says. “You’re damn good. I can see why Zimms liked playing with you so much.”

It’s unsettling just how fast Eric’s face goes from free and open to completely shuttered.

“Can we. Can we talk about him?” Kent asks.

“I really don’t want to.”

“I think we should.”

Eric skates a few lazy figure eights. “Fine,” he says finally. “But not here. I don’t think I want to have this conversation sober.”

They gather up the pucks and change back into their shoes. When they get to the car, Eric doesn’t plug his phone into the radio like he always does. They drive in silence, Eric’s fingers tapping a frantic rhythm on his thigh the entire way.

Eric doesn’t look at him the whole way up to his apartment.

“I should shower first,” he says once he’s got the door open.

“You’re avoiding.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are.”

“I know.” Eric sighs and makes his way to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

Kent shakes his head. “I stopped drinking about Jack a long time ago.”

The laugh that comes out of Eric’s mouth is cold and derisive. “That makes one of us. God, I don’t want to do this. Do we have to do this?”

Kent settles on Eric’s tiny little couch, one leg curled up beneath him. “Do you want me to go first?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that might help.”

It’s not that Kent doesn’t know how the story goes; it’s that he’s not sure where to start.

He starts at the very beginning, the first time he met Jack at a sleepaway hockey camp in Toronto. How he knew who Jack was, of course, and how he kind of hated him because he was so fucking good. At first, he thought Jack was stuck up, because he was quiet, but it didn’t take long for him to realize Jack was just weird and kind of shy.

He tells Eric about the Q. About being paired with Jack at every opportunity because they were miles ahead of the other guys. About rooming with Jack and building a tentative friendship that got too big too fast.

“The thing about hockey,” Kent says, a little rueful. “They start sending us away from our families when we’re kids, before we know anything about anything, you know? Your family is a thousand miles away, and what else are you supposed to do? You find a life raft. You find someone who will help you float and you hold on with everything you’ve got.”

The next part is the part that hurts.

“I think Jack and I did that, made safety nets out of each other and called it something else entirely. And then we started hooking up, which was the worst thing we could have done. Because I was already ass-over-teakettle in love with him and too scared or stupid to say it.”

Actually, the next part is the part that hurts.

“Then, I mean. The overdose. I got to call 911, and his parents, and I spent the whole fucking night in the hospital, just waiting for him to wake up. I looked like hell on draft day, because I hadn’t slept at all. Walking up to put that jersey on felt like walking to my own funeral.” Kent chews at the skin around his thumbnail. “It’s been eight years and he’s never called me. Not once.”

“And you’re still in love with him?”

Kent nods. “Every second of every day.”

Eric tucks his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them. “I wish I were still in love with him.”

“You’re not?”

It takes a second for Eric to shake his head.

“You guys always looked so happy. What went wrong there?”

“Something doesn't always have to go wrong. Sometimes things just end.”

Kent inhales sharply. “Jesus.”

Eric is staring intently at a spot on the carpet where a loop has been pulled free and is sticking up in the air.

“Have you ever looked at someone and realized you weren't in love with them anymore? You never even realized it was happening, just, one day you knew it was gone?”

“No,” Kent says. He’s only been in love once, and he's never not been in love with Jack.

“I have. Like, things were fine, things were always fine. He’s kind, and attentive, and he tries so hard. And I was so in love with him for so long. I don’t know what happened. Just. One day, I woke up before him and I was watching the morning light dance across his face, and I didn’t feel _anything_. He was beautiful, and it didn’t matter.” Eric drags his forefinger through the condensation on his beer bottle. “I waited four months for it to come back before I realized it wasn’t going to.”

“And that’s when you left?”

Eric nods. “Marie, the woman who owns the bakery in Providence, her sister Sophia owns this place. When I told her I needed to leave, she told me Sophia was looking for a qualified manager. I didn’t think twice.”

It feels like something is sitting on Kent’s chest. “Well, for what it’s worth? I’m sorry it ended, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we’re friends.”

A gross noise bubbles out of Eric’s throat. “If you’d asked me six months ago if I could ever be happy about knowing you, I would have said no. But, god, I’m so thankful for you. I’m so fucking thankful for you.”

“C’mere,” Kent says, leaning to wrap his arms around Eric. They’re both crying, faces shining with tears, and Eric’s fisting his hands in Kent’s shirt like he might die if he lets go.

“I never even told my mom all of this,” Eric says. “I think she still thinks we’ll get back together.”

“I’ve only ever told my therapist,” Kent admits.

“You’re in therapy?”

Kent nods. “Have been since my second year. I, uh, basically had a full-scale nervous breakdown and ended up living with the Troys for two weeks until Jeff was convinced I wasn’t going to kill myself. He drove me to my first session to make sure I went.”

“I’m glad he did.”

“Me too,” Kent says, and he feels like he means it for the first time in a while. “Besides, Sarahi’s the best. I’d marry her if she weren’t, you know, sixty and already married.”

Eric’s sniffle gives way to a laugh. “Like she’d marry you anyway.”

“That’s true,” Kent concedes.

They sit like that for a while, wrapped up around each other, until Eric wipes the last of the dried tear tracks from his cheek.

“We should make chocolate chip cookies.”

Kent’s never said no to a warm cookie in his life, and he’s not starting now.

Trying to make cookies in roughly four square feet of kitchen is not an easy task, but they make it work. Eric makes it very clear that they will be using butter, and that if Kent ever so much as thinks about using margarine, he will appear and beat Kent to death with a wooden spoon.

Eric sets to work creaming the butter and sugar while Kent cracks eggs. They move around each other easily, like they’ve been building towards it, and it feels just as smooth as it did on the ice.

Most of the dough makes it onto a cookie sheet, but that doesn't mean that Kent doesn't eat at least two cookies-worth of unbaked dough. There’s a minor scolding for it, but the dough is so good Kent’s counting it as a win anyway.

The cookies come out perfect, golden and crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. Eric digs a tin out of the back of a cupboard so Kent can take some to his team in the morning.

At first, the guys don’t believe that Kent did, in fact, have a hand in baking the cookies, but they look suitably impressed when they start eating them.

Jerry, the Aces’ nutritionist, pulls him aside after practice and asks him not to feed the team fatty sugarbombs, especially this early in the season. Kent agrees, even if he has no intention of stopping.

They leave for LA after the game that night and Kent facetimes Eric from the hotel room.

“How’d the cookies go over?” Eric asks, curled into his bed. Kent can see his collarbones in the pale glow of his phone.

“I still don’t know if the guys believe that I helped make them, but they murdered every single one of them, so I guess they were good.”

Everything blurs as Eric rolls onto his side. “What time do you have to be up tomorrow?”

“Uh, around 8, I think? Skate’s at 9:30, but your boy needs food and coffee first.”

“My boy,” Eric snorts. Kent shushes him.

“You know what I mean. Anyways, how was work?”

Eric huffs. “I had to refuse some snooty bitch service today. She came and started yelling at Leah about a pie and was just generally being the worst. The best thing about being the manager is I get to tell these people no. Treat my employees like that, how dare you.”

“Yeah, Eric takes no shit.” Kent’s kind of proud of him for standing up to this lady. “You’re so petty. I bet you were so sweet when you told her to get the hell out.”

“Of course I was! What do you take me for?”

Kent’s laugh turns into a yawn halfway through. “Oh man. I think it’s time for bed.”

“G’night, darlin’.”

Kent waves and ends the call.

The Aces beat the Kings in overtime when Jonesy sneaks a puck past Quick in the middle of a scuffle in front of the net. They don’t get to go out and celebrate in LA, which sucks, but they have a game against the Ducks the next day. Which they lose in the dwindling seconds of the third when Rakell goes five hole on Arnie and that entire stupid Swede line crashes him into the boards.

Kent’s glad to fly to San Jose after that one.

They beat the Sharks, barely, but Burns takes Bergstrom out with some knee-to-knee contact that he’s probably going to get fined for, so they’re down a defenseman and Kent’s pissed. Everyone leaves him alone on the plane back to Vegas.

They play the Preds and the Blues in a back-to-back when they get home, and Kent’s wildly thankful for the three days off before the next game because he’s rocking a pretty stellar cold that he’s choosing to blame Kesler for because the asshole sneezed on him during a faceoff.

Eric shows up in the morning with an overnight bag and a canvas grocery bag.

“What?” Kent asks eloquently.

“I’m gonna kill so many birds with one stone,” Eric replies. “How ya feeling?”

Kent shrugs. “Been better, been worse,” he croaks.

“You sound like shit, but you look well enough for some kitchen time.” Eric dumps the overnight bag by the couch and heads in to set the grocery bag on the counter. “Tomorrow, there will be soup. Today, you learn how to roast a chicken.”

There is an entire chicken sitting on Kent’s counter. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a whole, uncooked chicken in his life.

“I’m gonna get you sick.”

Eric waves him off. “Unlike some people in this room, I have an immune system. Now, wash your hands.”

Kent doesn’t argue.

He does, however, laugh for ten minutes when Eric teaches him how to spatchcock the chicken, because spatchcock is the funniest word in the history of the universe. Eric doesn’t seem to see the humor, but Kent’s definitely going to call a guy that during a faceoff someday.

Eric makes him rub butter under the chicken’s skin and then rub oil over the whole thing, which is gross but apparently necessary, as was the brining Eric did before bringing everything over.

It goes in the oven at some ungodly temperature that Kent’s sure is going to burn it because he’s burning just standing next to it.

It comes out golden brown and crispy and delicious-looking, and Eric hipchecks him out of the way when he tries to steal a piece of skin.

“I will not be responsible for you singeing those silky mitts. Let it cool.”

They stand at the counter and pull the meat off the bones, putting half of it in a Tupperware container and half of it in their mouths. Kent guesses it counts as dinner.

Eric makes him put the carcass in a plastic bag, which looks gross sitting in Kent’s fridge, but he says they’re going to use it to make stock in the morning. Kent wants to ask why Swanson isn’t good enough, but he knows to trust Eric after the pasta sauce.

They end up on the couch watching ESPN and talking shit about the winless Rams. Kent doesn’t even care about football much, but Eric does, and Kent loves how animated he gets about the Falcons and how much unbridled loathing he has for almost every other team. Kent finds himself goading him on, just to watch his cheeks get pinker as he trashes the offensive line now that LaFleur’s gone.

It’s a good evening, and Kent hates that he starts yawning so early because it means that Eric ushers him off to bed before 10 PM.

He sleeps well, better than he usually does, and wakes up to the smell of coffee instead of the blaring of his alarm.

“Morning, sunshine,” Eric chirps sleepily when Kent wanders into the kitchen. “Eat some pancakes and we’ll start with the stock.”

They eat in amicable silence, Eric’s leg bouncing beneath the table to a beat only he knows. Once their plates are rinsed and in the dishwasher, Eric pulls the chicken out of the fridge and dumps it in a giant pot. He has Kent toss in some celery and carrots and onions and then fills the rest of it with water and sets it to boil.

“What do you want to do for the next couple of hours?” Eric asks.

“That has to cook for hours?”

“If you want it to be good.”

Kent shrugs. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Yes.”

Eric digs through Kent’s DVD collection and comes up with The Emperor’s New Groove.

It’s one of Kent’s favorite movies, if he’s being honest, and he and Eric act out scenes along with it. At one point he yells “you owe me a new acorn” so loud that Eric dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“Two-time Stanley Cup Champion Kent Parson, everyone!” Eric says, waving his arms in Vanna White fashion.

“I’m such a goddamn adult,” Kent says, settling back on the couch.

“Absolutely,” Eric says with an almost straight face. “The very best grown up.” They stare at each other for a few more seconds before busting up.

After, they put on The Lion King to continue in the Disney theme, and take turns practicing their lion roars. Kent wins by virtue of his sore throat.

By the end, the stock is ready and Eric carefully removes the bones and vegetables and skims the fat off the top. He pours half the liquid into some tupperware to put in Kent’s freezer (Kent is slowly amassing a collection of tupperware from Eric’s kitchen) and then throws chicken and egg noodles and carrots into what’s left in the pot.

It’s the best soup Kent’s ever had, rich and flavorful, with perfectly cooked noodles and tender chicken. He thinks he’d get sick all the time if it meant that Eric would cook this for him on a regular basis.

He eats the leftovers for every meal for two days, mourns when he finally puts the empty Tupperware into the sink.

Crisp fall air gives way to snow in most of the country and Kent’s foolish heart wishes for flurries even though it’s a sunny 65 degrees in Vegas.

Eric shows up to Kent’s place in a coat anyway. “I never did get used to those New England winters,” he says with a sheepish grin as he shrugs it off and drapes it over a chair. “Now, are you ready to attempt pie crust?”

Kent’s really, really not, but he nods anyway.

They pull their aprons out of the pantry and Eric sets flour, butter, and ice water on the counter. Eric teaches him how to cut butter into the flour, how to keep the dough cold so it doesn’t get too soft, how to roll the dough over the rolling pin to transfer it to the pie dish without breaking it.

He talks Kent through the filling, doesn’t touch a single thing himself. Kent boils the sugar and corn syrup, and burns his hand a little when it bubbles up while he stirs. The liquid gets mixed slowly into a bowl of eggs and Kent’s arm gets tired from stirring so much but he doesn’t stop. Next come the butter, vanilla, and pecans, and then the whole things gets poured into the pie crust.

They stand in the kitchen while it bakes, sharing their favorite Thanksgiving memories as the syrupy-sweet smell of pie permeates the air.

It comes out flawless and Kent feels intensely proud of himself. He and Eric come up with a ridiculous handshake to celebrate, and practice until they’ve got it down pat.

The next day, Kent picks Eric up and delivers both him and the pie to Jeff and Ali’s house for dinner.

Ali’s a pretty decent cook, which is good because Jeff is probably more useless in the kitchen than Kent ever was. She deep fries the turkey, which is a terrifying prospect to Kent. He’s seen enough of those videos of people lighting their fucking houses on fire, thank you. It comes out delicious, though, and Kent rationalizes eating so much of it by telling himself it’s protein.

When it comes time for dessert, Ali cuts the pie into generous slices and serves it in the living room so no one has to move from where they’re lying in food comas.

“God,” Jeff says as he swallows his first bite. “Seriously, Eric, you’re invited to every function ever if you keep bringing pie.”

“Actually,” Eric says, resting his plate in his lap. “Kent made this one.”

Jeff and Ali both turn to look at him.

“Wait, you made this?” Ali asks.

“I mean, Eric helped me with the crust and talked me through it, but. Yeah?”

Jeff looks thoughtful. “You really did make those cookies that time, huh?”

Kent nods. “Eric’s been teaching me.”

The way Jeff’s looking at him is unsettling, like Kent's keeping a secret and he's going to figure out what it is.

Kent goes home feeling a bit shaken for reasons he can’t quite place.

The Aces go on a four game road trip after Thanksgiving, play the New York and New England teams, ending with the Falconers.

Friday night in Providence and Kent begs off going out to celebrate the win to hole up in his hotel room. He leaves his shoes by the bed and texts Eric _if you’re awake, can we talk?_. Eric opens on Saturdays, so he’s not expecting a response but his phone lights up with an incoming call almost immediately.

“Hey, hon,” Eric slurs, sleep-rumpled and thick. He sounds like the sleepiest angel, and something in Kent’s chest seizes a little bit.

“Hey.” Kent’s voice is dry and cracked, like he’s swallowed sand.

“What’s up?”

Kent doesn’t want to say it out loud, because it sounds stupid even in his head. “I hate playing him.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah. I’ve been playing him twice a season for four fucking years and, every time, I tell myself I’m going to be fine. And then I see him, and I’m not fine at all.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Either he doesn’t look at me at all, and I feel like shit. Or, he looks at me like I’m _nothing_ , and I feel like shit.”

Eric’s awake now. “Kent, darlin’. You are more than what Jack thinks you are.”

“Like what?”

“Like what I think you are. Which is someone who is smart and funny and who is trying very hard every day to be the best person he can be.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a great captain, and you’re so good with the rookies, and there are people who love you, even if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Kent says, wiping his thumb over his cheek. “Now I’m crying. You’ve turned me into a sap.”

“You’re welcome. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Kent murmurs. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Thank you.”

He has a session with Sarahi scheduled for the day after they get back from the East Coast.

Every time Kent mentions Eric to Sarahi (which is, admittedly, a lot), she always gives him this fucking Look and he doesn’t really know how to read it.

She finally asks him if he and Eric are sleeping together and Kent chokes on his own spit as he sputters out a “no.”

“It’s okay if you are,” Sarahi says. “I just want to make sure that you two are talking about it. You need to be on the same page.”

“It’s not like that. I promise you it’s not like that.” He doesn’t say that Eric’s too good for him, but the way her face softens implies that she heard it anyway.

He also doesn’t say that Eric pretty much told him that he’d never date someone who was in the closet again. He feels like Eric’s right to set that ground rule, though. He hasn't dated since Jack, not really, because it's so hard to hide and he doesn't want to do it anyway.

She leaves him with instructions to be honest with himself and he thinks sure, thinks I can do that.

It's the second week of December and they're sitting on Kent's couch, half listening to one of those competition shows on the Food Network late one night when Kent gets an idea.

“Have you ever been out to Nipton at night?”

Eric shakes his head.

“That's where the aliens live,” Kent says, serious.

“Excuse me?”

“I'll take you, come on.”

They gather their jackets and a couple of blankets and pile into Kent's car. He takes the long way just for the drive, takes them down 215, around Sloan Canyon and through Searchlight.

When they get to the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, Kent pulls off the road, ignoring Eric's protests about scratching his car in the brush.

He throws a blanket over the hood and he and Eric climb up.

“We're gonna mess your car up.”

Kent shrugs. “Then I'll buy another one.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake.”

Kent lies down and lets his eyes adjust to the dark.

“Jeff and I came out here once, sat in the bed of his truck and drank too much, waiting for the aliens to show up.”

“You’re weird. You know that, right?”

Kent nods. “Like, there's no stars in Vegas. Too much neon and shit.”

Eric hums and Kent takes it as agreement.

“You ever look at the stars, look at how huge everything is, and realize you aren’t even a speck to God? You’re nothing. It’s. Comforting.”

He can feel Eric’s eyes on him. “How on earth is that comforting?”

“All my mistakes, my failures. They mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. The universe existed for billions of years before me, and it will exist for billions of years after I'm gone.”

There’s a moment where Eric stares at him, stares so long that Kent starts to feel it creeping in his skin, before turning his gaze back to the sky.

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” he says slowly. “That all of this is meaningless.”

“Like, it means something within the context of our lives, yeah, but our lives are meaningless in the context of everything else.”

Eric puffs out his cheeks and exhales noisily. “That’s the smartest-sounding thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

It’s an awkward motion, but Kent manages to kick Eric in the shin without rolling clean off the car.

“You’re not the only one with a degree, asshole.”

“Wait,” Eric says, sitting upright. “You have a degree?”

“It took for-fucking-ever, but you really can get your BA from UNLV online during the off season. Liberal Studies with an emphasis in philosophy.”

A look of realization dawns across Eric’s face. “So _that's_ where this came from.”

Kent grins, all teeth. “Welcome to the Existential Happy Hour.”

“No, thank you,” Eric says with a laugh. “Y’know, I can see how that could be a comfort to some people, but I don’t...I don’t think I’m okay with not meaning anything. I want to do things, to change things. I want to make a difference.”

Kent closes his eyes. “I used to want to.”

“Oh, honey,” Eric says, threading his fingers through Kent’s. “I’d argue you already have.”

The tears well, but Kent doesn’t blink, wills them not to fall. Eric squeezes his hand.

“You too,” Kent says when he can keep his voice steady.

They lie in silence for another hour. Kent counts stars and counts stars and recounts every time his vision blurs and he loses his place. Eric yawns, loud, and Kent curls upright.

“We should get you to bed.”

Eric only nods sleepily before climbing off the hood and into the passenger’s seat. They’re not quite halfway back into town before Kent hears his breath even out, slow and deep, and it fills him with warmth down to his toes.

He sits outside Eric’s apartment for ten minutes, engine idling, before he wakes Eric with a gentle shake and sends him upstairs. Eric waves from the doorway and Kent waits until the light flickers on in Eric's window before he pulls away from the curb.

Kent and Jeff have been bringing Eric to games as often as they can, partly because Jeff swears up and down that he's a good luck charm. It's not like Kent is particularly superstitious, but even he knows that they've won far more games than they've lost when Eric was there.

After a win against CBJ, the squad that came to Kent's that first night grab dinner and insist that Eric comes along.

The guys are a little rowdy, but not as bad as Kent knows they can be. Eric is quieter than usual, though. Kent huddles into his space in as inconspicuous a way as he can.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I'm fine. It’s just so weird sitting in the wives and girlfriends box,” Eric says. “It was weird enough doing it for the Falcs, and Jack and I were. You know. But here, like, I’m not your girlfriend.”

That's not what Kent was expecting to hear. “Do you want to sit somewhere else?”

Eric shakes his head. “I love sitting with Ali, it's just. Weird. I feel like some of the other wives look at me sometimes, like they know something when there's nothing to know.”

“You don't even wear my shirt.”

Eric's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “I think they're why I don't.”

Everything in Kent's chest goes a little tight at the thought that Eric would, if the circumstances were different.

Kent ends up inviting Eric over for Christmas because Eric can’t afford a plane ticket to see his parents and he’d threatened to poison Kent when he’d offered to buy him one.

(“I maintain that the point of an NHL salary is to buy your friends shit they can’t buy themselves.”

“I will put arsenic in your breakfast muffins, so help me god.”

“Where are you going to get fucking _arsenic_?”

“On the, I don’t, like, the dark web or something, don’t test me.”)

When Eric shows up, he’s cradling an old, metal coffee tin like the most precious football. It’s weird, but Eric’s kind of weird, so Kent just lets it go.

Most of the spread falls on Eric’s shoulders, because he insists on doing Christmas right. Kent usually just orders Chinese food and tips the delivery driver like a hundred bucks, but Eric wants to make a roast and bacon-wrapped asparagus and homemade rolls and two different pies.

Kent claims a corner of the countertop to make his mom’s mashed potatoes because he’s not completely useless in the kitchen. Besides, his mom’s mashed potatoes are bomb. Sometimes Kent just makes a giant bowl of them and eats them as a meal when he’s feeling kind of fucked up. He hasn’t done it in a while, though.

So Kent peels and Eric wraps asparagus and it’s the calmest Kent’s been in years. He’s comfortable, truly comfortable with Eric, in a way he isn’t even with Jeff. He feels like Eric makes him a better person, makes him want to be a better person.

Kent throws a strip of potato skin in Eric’s direction. “I think this is the first real Christmas I’ve had since I was 14.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The Troys invite me every year but, I don’t know. I kind of like being alone for Christmas.”

Eric picks the potato skin off the counter and drops in the trash. “So why’d you invite me over?”

Kent shrugs. “Hanging with you is better than being alone.”

He doesn’t miss how pink Eric’s ears go.

“Well, that’s sweet of you to say, honey.”

Together they make Eric’s MooMaw’s green beans. Eric makes Kent pinky-promise that he won’t tell his nutritionist because the coffee tin is apparently full of fucking bacon grease. While the roast comes up to room temperature, they snap beans and sometimes throw the the stem bits at each other instead of in the trash can. Once they’re all snapped, everything goes in a pot with some water, a massive dollop of bacon grease, and a generous pinch of salt. It simmers slowly while the roast cooks in the oven and Kent doesn’t think he’s ever smelled so many good things at once.

Dinner is magnificent. Kent eats more prime rib than any one human should ever consume in a single sitting. Eric eats three helpings of mashed potatoes and whines that he wants a fourth but he also doesn’t want to puke. Everything is diffuse and beautiful in the low candlelight, wine glasses twinkling in the glow.

Kent seriously weighs how rude it would be to unbutton his pants at the dining room table before he talks himself out of it.

“I’m gonna sit here for ten more minutes, or however long it takes me to feel like I can move without being sick, and then we’re gonna go in the other room and do presents.”

“I love presents,” Eric slurs, slouched down so far in his chair that Kent can barely see him over the table.

He tosses a dinner roll into his lap. “No sleeping at the table.”

“Not sleeping,” Eric mumbles in a voice that sounds very close to being asleep.

Kent heaves himself out of his own chair. “Nope, come on, we’re going to the living room now. Get your wine glass.”

Eric grumbles loudly, but he pushes upright and grabs his glass. “So rude, interrupting my nap.”

“I knew you were sleeping.”

The tree in Kent’s living room is very big and very fake, because he’s never felt right about cutting down a fifteen-year-old tree for two weeks of holiday decoration. Beneath it lie exactly three presents.

“Purrs should open hers first,” Eric announces.

“I love that you bought my cat a present.”

“I love your cat.”

Kent scoops Purrs into his lap and reaches out for Eric to hand him the box. He tugs the twine off and neatly pulls the tape up to pull the paper off.

“Oh,” Eric says, “you’re one of those.”

Kent ignores him in favor of gently unfolding the paper from around the box. It looks like a jewelry box, almost, kind of flat and thin. He lifts the lid.

“Eric. Eric, oh my god.”

Laying inside is a double strand of pearls, perfectly creamy-white. Hanging down from the front is a silver spade engraved with the word Purrs.

He lifts it out and runs his fingers over it. “This is too much.”

“Every princess deserves some sparkle.”

Kent unclasps the back and loops it around Purrs’ neck. She shakes her head a little, but makes no other effort to get it back off. He scratches her chin.

“I think she likes it.”

Eric grins. “I think so, too.”

Kent lets her go and drags a package from under the tree. “Your turn,” he says.

Unlike Kent, Eric is a wrapping paper shredder, and he rips the paper from the package in two swift movements.

“Kent Parson, what have you done?”

Under the paper are three boxes. The two small ones are stoneware pie tins, one each in white and Samwell red. The third is a Le Creuset Dutch oven, the turquoise one Eric saw at Williams-Sonoma and sighed about.

Eric bursts into tears and throws his arms around Kent’s neck.

“You shouldn’t have, you beautiful thing. Thank you. Thank you.”

Kent’s pretty sure he’s covered in salt and snot and this is absolutely worth it.

Eric wipes at his face with his sleeve. “I don’t even want to give you your present now. It doesn’t feel good enough.”

“Pffft. Hand it over.”

The present kind of feels like a book, but not like a paperback or anything. He takes his time opening it, mostly just to watch Eric squirm.

It’s a recipe book. Kent flips it open to find recipe cards inside, written in Eric’s slightly messy scrawl.

“These are some of the recipes my mom and MooMaw taught me when I was just learning. They’re not too hard, but they’re good, and I wanted you to have them,” Eric explains. “It’s kind of stupid but-”

“I love it,” Kent says with a force that surprises even him. “I love it, holy shit. This is the most amazing present I’ve ever gotten.”

He pushes up on his knees and shuffles over to give Eric a hug. “You’re fantastic. Thank you.”

Eric is so, so red, but he hugs Kent back. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

It’s probably the best Christmas Kent’s ever had.

New Year’s is at Jeff’s house this year, which Kent is thankful for, because somebody puked in Purrs’ bed last year and she wouldn’t let Kent pet her for three days. They don’t have a game, which really just means people are going to be even drunker this time, because they’re going to start drinking at eight instead of eleven. Kent just doesn’t need that in his house.

He picks Eric up early because they’d promised to help Jeff set up and decorate or whatever. Kent’s just wearing a variation on his normal jeans-and-a-tee look, but Eric’s wearing the tightest black jeans Kent has ever seen, with a pressed fuchsia button-down and a silver sequined bow tie. He looks like he came to fucking party and he looks amazing, and Kent tells him that. Eric runs his fingers through his perfectly-coiffed hair with a laugh.

“I like to dress up,” he says in explanation.

Kent parks in Jeff’s driveway, which is, like, best friend privilege. Jeff meets them at the door with a strand of twinkle lights.

“Here,” he says, thrusting it at Kent. “Grab some of those peely hooks and and put that around the slider. I’ve got to get the hats and glasses out of the closet.” He turns away before Kent can even say hi.

Eric giggles. “Our host seems stressed.”

“Jeff’s a dweeb. Help me get this put up, yeah?”

It takes them about an hour to get everything set up, and Jeff starts to calm down when things start to look they way he’d envisioned.

Lindy’s the first guy to show up, a 24-pack of Corona in one hand and a bottle of Cristal in the other. “I brought a little something for everyone,” he says as he shoves the bottle into the ice bucket.

The rest of the guys show up quickly after that. Kent’s team can’t be on time for a fucking flight, but they’ll get there early if free booze is involved.

Eric’s a butterfly, chatting with everyone and flitting from group to group, but he keeps close to Kent, pulls him along. Kent nurses a beer until it’s too warm to stomach, dumps the rest of it down the kitchen sink.

At some point, Jonesy calls for shots, because he’s the worst, and Kent watches half his team and Eric go from tipsy to fucked up in ten minutes or less. Kent does a single shot of vodka at Eric’s insistence, remembers why vodka turns his stomach, and excuses himself to go splash water on his face in the bathroom.

When he opens the door, Eric is standing there looking nervous.

“I shouldn’t have pressured you. I’m sorry. That wasn’t. I shouldn’t have.”

Kent slings an arm around his neck. “Dude, it’s fine. If I really didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have done it. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone talk me into anything.”

Eric’s face is still twisted, eyebrows knit together in concern. “Still. It was a dick move.”

Kent shrugs a shoulder. “A little, yeah. But I’m not mad about it. So get back out there. I think Arnie wants to dance with you, said he had a special song for it.”

The song is My Neck, My Back and Eric practically squeals when the beat hits and Arnie wraps his arms around Eric’s waist and grinds on him.

“Leave room for Jesus!” Kent yells, but Eric’s laughing, head thrown back, looking for all the world like he’s having a great time being groped by a 6’4”, straight hockey player.

It gets a little crazy after that, drinking and dancing and dancing and drinking. Kent’s pretty sure someone pukes in a fake potted plant.

He wanders out back a little before midnight because it’s significantly cooler on the patio than it is in the crush of bodies filling Jeff’s house. He knows he used to party, partied harder than he should have, but he likes to think he’s not as sad now as he was then. His team is great, and they mean well, but when they get this rowdy, it feels like his rookie year all over again and he can’t always keep himself from shutting down.

Eric finds him, because Eric always seems to know where he is.

“Antisocial,” he says, sidling up to Kent.

“That’s me,” Kent says, nudging him with an elbow.

“It’s almost time for the ball drop. You gonna come back inside?”

Kent shakes his head. He’ll be able to hear his team counting down.

Eric just says _’kay_ and settles in next to him.

“You don’t have to keep me company.”

“I know.”

They stand there, quiet, and listen to Kent’s team scream as the seconds dwindle.

TEN

“This was such a weird year,” Eric says. Kent hums in agreement.

SEVEN

“This hasn’t been anything like the plans I made for myself.”

THREE

“But-

TWO

-I’m still-

ONE

-happy.”

Somebody the next street over is lighting fireworks and Eric pushes up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of Kent’s mouth.

“Here’s to the new year.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t say anything at all. Eric gives his arm a squeeze and disappears inside. Kent stands outside in the cool air for another ten minutes before heading back inside.

In January, the Aces play the Devils at home. The game is a wild one, both teams trading goals back and forth for a final score that looks more like a baseball score than a hockey one. The Aces manage to to hold on to a one goal lead in the fading seconds of the third, so Kent is worn down but warm with pride in his team.

The postgame scrum feels more crowded than usual, but Kent doesn’t think anything of it until the first reporter opens his mouth.

“What do you think about your Q linemate Jack Zimmermann’s announcement earlier today?”

It takes all of Kent’s willpower not to roll his eyes back into his skull. He’s been bored with questions about Jack for years.

“What’d Jacky-boy do?”

“You mean, you haven’t heard?” The guy from the Review-Journal looks downright gleeful. “Jack Zimmermann came out today.”

All of Kent’s breath abandons his body.

“He what?”

“There was a press conference with Brian Burke from You Can Play.”

The rational part of Kent’s brain is desperately trying to calm the part that’s currently screaming _the whole world is going to figure out you suck dick_.

Every piece of media training comes back to him at once and his entire body forces itself into a state that passes for relaxed.

“Well, that’s brave as hell of him. He’s a good man, and he deserves to live authentically. I think he’s proof that, if you can play, you can play.”

“Did you know?”

The scrum goes quiet. Kent purses his lips.

“Excuse me?”

The guy from the Sun pushes his recorder closer. “Did you know about Zimmermann?”

On the list of questions Kent doesn’t want to answer, this one is near the top.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I knew.”

Kent doesn’t remember anything about the rest of postgame, just runs on autopilot until someone from PR ushers everyone out. Kent showers in record time and hauls ass to his car.

It’s a minor miracle that he doesn’t get pulled over on the way to Eric’s.

The elevator’s too slow, so Kent takes the stairs two at a time to the third floor and bangs on Eric door.

The door opens to reveal Eric, eyes red-rimmed and puffy but the rest of his face stony. As soon as he focuses on Kent, everything crumples.

Kent shoves through the door, kicks it shut behind him, and all but carries Eric to the couch.

“He called me,” Eric whispers into the side of Kent’s neck. “He left a message and told me to keep an eye on the news today.”

“Shit,” Kent says, arms wrapped tight around Eric’s shoulders.

“I don’t. I feel like an asshole. I don’t know if he did it for me, but all I could think as I watched him talk was that it wasn’t going to make me fall in love with him again.” Eric squeezes his eyes shut. “Shouldn’t it be enough? Am I bad person because it’s not?”

“You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known.”

“What if that isn’t good enough?”

Kent places a kiss to Eric’s temple. “One of the most important things Sarahi ever had to teach me was that I don’t actually owe anyone my love or a place in my life. Those things are mine to give, if I want to, and they are mine to take away.” He leans back, looks Eric in the eyes. “Loving people is, like, it’s great, to give them your love. But no one’s entitled to it. Not even Jack.”

Eric’s still crying, but it’s softer now, body shaking less. Kent runs a hand over his hair.

“Can...will you stay tonight?” Eric asks after a while.

“Fuck yeah, let’s cuddle in that tiny bed. Come on.” He hoists Eric up and shoos him toward the bed before taking his suit off and draping it over the back of the couch.

The bed’s a double, maybe, and Eric is curled up on the left side. Kent throws a pillow from the couch on the right and lies down beside him. He’s not a tactile person, but he knows Eric needs a grounding touch right now, so he tucks his legs up beneath Eric’s and throws an arm across him.

“Thanks,” Eric says, so quiet.

“Get some sleep, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Eric protests, but his voice is already slurring with sleep. Kent listens for Eric’s breathing to even out before letting himself drift asleep.

When Kent wakes up, they're still looped together and Kent tightens his hold for a second before pulling his arm away. There's practice this morning and, as much as he might want to stay, he's got to leave soon if he doesn't want to show up in last night's suit.

He knows there's a stack of post-its in the kitchen drawer by the sink, so he leaves Eric a note. There's nothing worse than waking up alone without even a note. Kent learned that firsthand.

_had to head to the rink. enjoy your day off and i’ll come over tonight_

He leaves it stuck to Eric’s phone so he’ll see it for sure, steals one last look at Eric’s sleep-curled form, and heads to work.

They've been talking more about Jack lately, just in passing, like he's not the biggest elephant in the room at any given moment. Kent wants to say it's good, because six years of therapy has taught him that just being able to say Jack's name is good, but mostly it still sets him on edge.

They’re sitting on the couch, watching the Falcs/Bruins game for some reason Kent doesn’t understand. Kent chews his bottom lip a little more every time the camera zooms in on Jack or an announcer so much as thinks the name Zimmermann. Eric’s watching him more than the game.

“Why are you still in love with him?” Eric asks, easy, like it's not the hardest question Kent's ever asked himself.

“What?”

“Why do you keep letting him hurt you? I don’t understand why you’re still in love with him.”

Something in Kent’s stomach boils, hot and acidic. “Maybe you’d understand if you didn’t run away like a little bitch when things stop being easy,” Kent snaps before clapping his hands over his mouth, eyes gone wide. “Oh fuck, I’m so-”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Eric says, quiet and full of fire. “You are not going to talk to me like that. You’re never going to talk to me again.” He turns on his heel and storms out, door slamming behind him like it knows this is the end of something.

He’s in his car and pulling out of the drive before Kent even gets his breath back.

Once his taillights fade in the distance, all Kent can say is, “Shit.”

He looks like shit at practice in the morning, and everyone gives him a wide berth until they’re showered and changed.

Jeff corners him by the door. “Are you just not sleeping now or something? Because you look like garbage.”

“I fucked up,” Kent says back, so low Jeff has to lean forward to hear him.

“Oh god, what did you do this time?”

Kent doesn’t want to tell him, but he does.

Jeff slams the heel of his hand into the wall, the echo loud in the empty locker room.

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t. I didn’t want to say it, but I opened my mouth and that’s what came out.”

Jeff’s breathing is shallow. Kent’s never been afraid that Jeff would hit him, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he got decked right now.

“How do you always manage to be the hugest fucking asshole in the history of the world, Kent?”

Kent finds himself shrinking down, tucking his shoulders in, trying to take up as little space as possible, because he doesn’t feel like he deserves to take up any space at all.

“How do I fix it?” he asks.

“I don't know,” Jeff says, sharp. “But you better fucking figure it out real quick because, yeah, you fucked up.”

“I know, I, god, I know .” He’s not going to cry, he’s not, but he wants to.

Jeff softens. “Hey, hey, come on. You’ll fix it. You’ll figure it out.”

Kent’s not so sure.

He goes home and doesn’t sleep. They play the Lightning and Kent looks like trash on the ice, missed passes and wide shots. They lose 4-1 and Kent lies to the reporters and goes home and doesn’t sleep. He gets sent home from practice the next day with a warning about being scratched from the game that night if he doesn’t get his shit together.

To be fair, the last thing Kent wants to do right now is play the fucking Falcs, but the season doesn’t stop just because Kent’s sad. He braces himself before taking the ice, tries to shield himself from the inevitable pain of seeing Jack.

It doesn’t come.

Jack ignores him during a faceoff, looks at him disdainfully when he crashes into Jeff after Jeff’s goal, and it doesn’t hurt.

The bone-deep ache, the eternal longing, the overwhelming sadness are nowhere to be found. Kent looks straight into Jack’s face and doesn’t feel anything at all.

That’s a lie. He feels freedom.

And Kent, Kent's never known himself without Jack taking up space in every part of his body, every organ and bone and tendon. The thought of figuring out who he is free of Jack is terrifying. It's exhilarating. It's everything Kent's been waiting a decade to find.

After the game, Kent tugs his phone out of his bag to tell Eric about this development. He’s half-typed the text before he remembers that Eric isn’t talking to him.

And there’s the ache, the one that clings to his ribs and brings his breath in gasps, and -

_Oh._

He goes home and paces his house end to end in his good suit. He knows he needs to fix this, isn’t sure how, except, maybe.

Eric’s recipe book sits in his bookcase, and he pulls it down to flip through to the desserts, scours one page and then another.

That’s the one.

It’s weird, opening Eric’s cupboard when Eric isn’t there, but Kent digs around for a cake pan and the bag of flour.

He knows what to do now.

It’s almost midnight, but he’s got the oven preheated and he’s chopping bananas and pecans and canned pineapple and stirring them all into his moistened dry ingredients.

It smells amazing as it bakes, sweet and warm scent filling every room. Kent tests it with a toothpick, the way Eric always did, to make sure the cake is cooked through. When it’s perfect, he pulls it out and sets it on the counter to cool. It’s late now, just about one, so he goes in the bedroom to put his suit away.

When he comes back out, he feels betrayal like he’s never known.

There’s a single, perfect paw print in the middle of the cake.

“Purrs!” he yells. “Purrs, how could you? I thought we were friends!”

Purrs licks her paw daintily and looks as though she could not possibly care less.

With a sigh, Kent washes the dirty dishes so he can do this all again.

This time, he puts the cake in the fridge and stays in the kitchen for the dual purpose of watching Purrs and making frosting.

Kent is not good at spreading frosting, but he gets it as even as he can, mixes the extra with some leftover food coloring before scooping into a piping bag.

If he’s not good at spreading frosting, he’s terrible at writing in icing. He tries it on the counter a couple of times before he has any kind of confidence in his ability to write legibly on this cake.

It comes out wobbly, but he thinks Eric will be able to read it.

By now, it’s almost four and he knows Eric will be up soon for work, so he very carefully walks the plate to his car and sets it gently on the floor of the passenger’s seat.

Kent’s pretty sure he didn’t drive this slow when he was first learning how to drive. He feels like an old woman or something. He’s afraid he’s going to get pulled over for driving too far under the speed limit.

There’s a free visitor parking spot at Eric’s place, a miracle for which Kent is grateful.

Before he knows it, he’s in front of Eric’s door. All he has to do is knock.

He’s never been so terrified before.

He shifts the cake to one hand, balances it precariously so he can reach out and rap on the door.

There’s a second of quiet before he hears the sound of feet shuffling across the carpet. He hears the lightswitch click and looks down to see his toes bathed in the light seeping beneath the door. When the door swings open, Eric’s standing there in his pajamas, looking sleep-rumpled and soft but for the look on his face.

“Can I help you?”

Kent holds out the cake.

“Sorry for being an asshole,” Eric reads.

“It’s, uh. It’s a hummingbird cake. The one from the book you gave me.”

“You made me my MooMaw’s hummingbird cake?”

Kent nods.

“Come in,” Eric says, stepping aside to usher Kent in.

“I actually made two cakes. The first just, kind of, had an accident.”

“An accident?”

“My cat is also an asshole.”

Eric’s mouth twitches as he tries to stifle a grin and fails. “She’s a princess, mister. Get it right.”

Kent sets the cake down on the table and waits for Eric to sit.

“I don't want to forgive you,” Eric says. “I'm probably going to, but I want you to know I don't want to.”

“I don't blame you.”

Eric's looking somewhere around his knees. “Why'd you say it?”

Kent grimaces. “I, uh. I have a tendency to say things, things that I know will hurt, and the whole time my brain is screaming at me to stop, but it's like my mouth doesn't get the memo. My therapist says I get scared when I get too close to someone and then I have to destroy the relationship before the other person can, to protect myself.” The corner of his mouth tugs down. “Jeff punched me in the face once. I deserved it.”

Eric’s fingers are digging into his thighs. “So you thought we were getting too close?”

Kent takes a deep breath.

“You remember when you asked me if I'd ever realized I wasn't in love with someone anymore and I said no?”

Eric nods.

“I get it now.”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I saw Jack tonight. Or, well, last night. And I was fine. For the first time in years, I was completely fine.”

“Oh! That's good. But what does that have to do with-”

“I wanted to tell you about it. I started to text you. And I couldn’t because I knew we weren't talking. And Eric, fuck. That hurt as bad as Jack always did.”

Eric’s eyes are huge, wider than Kent’s ever seen them. “Kent…”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that,” Eric whispers. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it, though. I don’t. I don’t know how to make you believe me.”

He can tell now that Eric is shaking minutely, hands curled into gentle fists.

“Don’t you get my hopes up like this, Kent Parson. Don’t you _dare_.”

Kent’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Don’t you waltz in here and tell me you love me like I haven’t been mad about you for longer’n two months.”

It takes a minute for the words to make sense in Kent’s head.

“Wait, you mean - oh, thank god.”

Eric starts to laugh, claps a hand over his mouth to muffle it. “This is probably the worst idea.”

“Oh, terrible, for sure,” Kent says, but he steps in a little closer. “I don’t really care.”

“Me neither,” Eric says, twisting his fingers in the hem of Kent’s shirt.

“Can I kiss you?” Kent asks.

“I think you’d better.”

It’s been a long time since Kent’s kissed anyone shorter than him, or at all, but his body seems to remember exactly what to do. Eric pushes up on his toes when Kent gets a hand on the back of his neck, and they stand in the kitchen and kiss until Kent’s mouth feels swollen and worn.

“Do you _have_ to go to work this morning?” he asks, running his nose along Eric’s jaw.

“Work! Shit!” Eric disentangles himself from Kent’s arms and bolts to the closet. “Oh god, I’m so late, I’m so late.”

Kent laughs. “Okay, but it was worth it, right?”

“You hush your pretty mouth right this second before I make myself later.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be quiet. Hurry up and get dressed, I’ll take you to work.”

The roads are never empty in the heart of Vegas, but traffic isn’t too bad at five in the morning. The neon lights buzz around them, red-yellow-orange glow washing over their faces, and Kent reaches over to twine his fingers with Eric’s.

“I think we need to have a conversation about this tonight.”

Kent nods. He’s never been good at talking, but he’s thinks maybe that’s always been the problem. “You’re off at two? I’ll bring you home.”

He pulls into the parking lot and coasts to a stop in front of the door.

“I’ll see you at two,” Eric says, giving his hand a squeeze before slipping out of the car.

It’s the second-longest nine hours of Kent’s life. By the time he shows up to get Eric, his whole body is buzzing and he’s acutely aware of his skin.

For his part, Eric looks just as fazed.

The drive back to Eric’s feels longer than usual and Kent fills the silence with too-loud radio pop.

Once inside, Eric pulls two plates down from the cupboard and cuts them each a slice of Kent’s cake.

“Talking always goes more smoothly with baked goods,” he says, and Kent is inclined to agree.

“So,” Kent says before popping a forkful into his mouth, “are we - holy shit.”

“Kent,” Eric says, “Kent, this cake is perfect. You made it taste exactly like my MooMaw’s.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Oh, shush. Now, what were you saying?”

“Are we, like, are we dating? Do you want to be?”

Eric chews slowly, like he’s trying to buy himself some time.

“I do,” he says.

“I don’t know if I want to come out yet,” Kent warns. “‘But the guys would know. I want to, like, take you to family skate and hold your hand and all that gross shit.”

“Oh, lord.”

“And I do want to come out someday. But I can’t promise that it's going to happen any time soon.”

Eric’s smile is a little bitter. “And I can’t promise that I’ll always be here.”

“I know. And that’s okay. I want to be with you as long as you’ll have me.”

Eric sets his fork down. “Take me out tonight.”

“I can do that.”

“Take me somewhere nice. I want to dress up.”

Kent grins toothily. “Yes, sir.”

Getting into Twist on a Saturday night isn’t the easiest feat, but Kent’s got connections. He texts Eric, telling him to be ready by seven, and then sets out to find an acceptable outfit that isn’t his standard game-day suit.

He picks Eric up at 7:30, holds the car door open for him like either one of them is remotely dignified. Eric lifts his nose into the air and steps into the car like a Hollywood starlet and they both laugh as Kent pours himself in the driver’s side.

He valets the car and guides Eric inside with a hand pressed to the small of his back. A beautiful brunette leads them to their table in a secluded corner. She doesn’t give them menus, because Kent has already set up the six course tasting menu with wine pairings, and Eric looks around at the dangling spherical lights and minimalist decor.

Their waiter sets glasses down on the table and pours them both some wine, the price point of which is something Kent’s trying not to think about. Eric takes a sip before making a face that Kent reads as him being overwhelmed.

“You okay?”

“I said fancy, I know I said fancy, but dear god in Heaven. I don’t think I’d prepared myself for this level of fancy.”

Kent watches him as his hands flex nervously.

“Do you want to bounce? We don’t have to eat here.”

“You went through all this trouble, I don’t want-”

“Eric. This is not my scene in the slightest. I can’t pronounce most of the shit they’re supposed to serve us. We can leave.”

Eric weighs his options. “Did you already pay for it?”

Kent shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Do you want to leave?”

Eric pulls his shoulders up to his ears and nods.

“Then let’s go. I have a backup plan.”

There’s a 24-hour Fatburger that Kent has hit up in the middle of the night more times than he cares to admit. Kent brags that he can finish a XXXL burger with fries and Eric obviously double-dog-dares him to prove it.

Halfway through, Kent lays his face on the table. “I lied,” he groans. “I’m full of shit. I’m gonna puke if I so much as think about chewing any more.”

“What happened to ‘mama didn’t raise no quitter?’” Eric teases.

“Apparently I lied about that, too.”

Eric swipes a fry from Kent’s tray. “And yet I like you anyway.”

Kent walks him to his door after dinner and Eric lingers in the doorway.

“I’d invite you in, but I think my mother would have some words for me.”

“I know,” Kent says, leaning in to press a kiss to Eric’s cheek. “I had fun tonight. I’ll text you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eric says softly. “G’night.”

Kent goes home with warmth singing through his body, tingling all the way down through his toes.

The team has a St. Patrick’s Day party because these assholes will take any excuse to drink. Kent and Eric bring shamrock-shaped sugar cookies, Jeff dyes a keg green with a metric ton of food coloring, and someone loads up a playlist that’s heavy on the Flogging Molly.

It’s a good time, and Kent lets himself enjoy it, lets himself get a decent buzz going and sit too close to Eric on the couch. At some point, Jensen wanders over and sits on the arm.

“So,” he says, shit-eating grin already firmly in place. “Why does your boyfriend look like you?”

Kent thwacks him with a pillow until he goes away.

Eric takes a selfie of them, him in Kent’s hat, Kent’s hair floppy from perspiration and having drunkenly run his hands through it.

Eric shows him the picture before he posts it to Instagram. It’s not buddies, the way Kent’s smiling at Eric like he hung the stars himself, but it’s also not obvious enough that anyone would know if they didn’t know to look.

Which means Kent’s phone lights up an hour later with a name that hasn’t been on his incoming calls for years.

He isn’t sure if he wants to answer, but he excuses himself to the bathroom and hits accept anyway.

“Are you fucking Bitty?” Jack asks before Kent can say a word.

“Hi Jack, it’s so nice of you to call! We haven’t talked in ages and -”

“Kenny.”

Kent sucks in a breath, loud. “I really don’t think it’s any of your business, and I really don’t think you get to call me that anymore.”

“Kent. Are you?”

The phone is shaking in Kent’s hand and tightening his grip does nothing to stop it. “You don’t get to ask me this, Jack. You just don’t.”

He can hear Jack breathing hard.

“I’m still in love with him.”

Kent’s laugh is so, so hollow. “Yeah, well. I think you and I know better than anyone that being in love with someone doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh, please. You knew I was in love with you. I was in love with you for ten fucking years and it didn’t mean anything to you.”

The silence stretches before Jack breaks it.

“Was?”

“Was. As in past tense. As in I’m not anymore.”

“Are you in love with Bitty?”

Kent digs his nails into his palm. “Yes.”

“Is he in love with you?”

It feels like the worst thing he’s ever done when Kent says, “Yes.”

The line goes dead. Kent’s hands keep shaking.

“Honey?” Eric’s voice drifts through the door. “Are you okay?”

Kent shakes his head even though he knows Eric can’t see him. Eric lets himself in.

“What’s wrong?” Eric asks, eyes big with concern.

“Jack,” Kent says simply. “Jack just called.”

“Oh, shit. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know about us.”

Eric wraps his arms around himself. “What did you tell him?”

“Probably more than I should have.” Kent shoves his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t have to see them tremble anymore.

“How’d he take it?”

“He hung up on me.”

Eric steps into his space and leans against his chest until Kent’s arms come up around him.

“I hope he's okay.”

Kent buries his face in the side of Eric's neck. “Me too.”

\-----  
The Aces make the playoffs easily, are in a race with the Caps for the President’s Trophy.

The Falcs squeak in with three games left in the season and Kent finds himself praying that they don't meet in the Final even if it means his own team gets bounced early. Having to face Jack in person is the last thing Kent wants to do, maybe ever.

Eric cons Sophia into letting him make Aces-themed goodies for the store and sends Kent to practice with a giant box full of spade cookies that Kent definitely helped decorate. And hockey is still growing in Vegas, but they sell. The cookies and cupcakes sell out the night of each game.

He doesn't get to see Eric much, because playoffs are hell and Kent's barely sleeping enough as it is. Sometimes he tries to call Eric at night and Eric will answer the call with “Go to sleep, Kent,” and hang up.

They play the Kings in the first round and drop the first two at home because Quick is a fucking brick wall and Kent only likes him when they’re on Team USA together.

They roar back to life when the series gets to LA, score four goals in the first period and do a good enough job keeping the puck out of their zone that Arnov starts to bitch about being bored.

The fourth game is closer, but the Aces squeak out a win on a last-minute goal, courtesy of Kent’s own quick hands.

They drop the next game but win the next two to celebrate advancing in front of their home crowd.

Neither Kent nor Eric says a word when the Falcs beat the Caps in six.

The Oilers put up a hell of a fight against the Flames, but go down easy against the Aces in four straight games. Lindy has the game-winning goal in two of those games, goals in another two, and seven points in the series. Kent makes a big show about kneeling down to unlace Lindy’s skates after the last game.

Kent enjoys his days off and tries not to think about the Falcs pushing the series with the Lightning to seven games, or about Jack scoring the series-winning goal in overtime.

Kent gets bruised to hell the first game against the Ducks when Kesler runs him into the boards at full speed.

The rest of the series goes a lot like that. By the end of the fourth game, they’re tied at two games a piece and Kent’s pretty sure Jeff’s playing with a fucked up wrist that he’s not going to tell anyone about until after the very last game of the playoffs.

Game five is more physical, and Jensen gets helped off the ice after Manson lays him out with a hit that Kent hates to admit was clean. The kid just landed wrong, and Kent’s thinking he might be out for a while.

Game six is worse.

Game seven is a bloodbath. Literally. The refs break up three separate fights and there’s so many high sticking double minors that Kent’s sure half of the dudes on the ice at any given time have stitches in their faces.

It’s the longest sixty minutes Kent’s ever played in his life.

But at the end, his guys come out on top.

Or, rather, Lindy does.

The kid has a fucking hat trick in the last game, and he gets the crew to let him keep all the hats the crowd rained down on him. He tells the media he’s going to get a giant plexiglass box to put them in and keep them in his living room. Kent’s inclined to believe him.

Three hours earlier, in Pittsburgh, the Falcs bounced the Pens.

Kent hasn’t wanted to puke about going to the Final since the first time he went, but he wants to puke now.

He doesn’t need to read his press to know what every single media outlet is talking about.

The series starts in Vegas and Kent dodges questions about Jack like he’s walking through a minefield. He keeps his head down, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t start anything. He keeps his distance from Jack, mercifully only ends up on the ice at the same time as him for maybe ten minutes over the course of both games.

They head east with the series split 1-1.

He's skyping Eric from his hotel room in Providence when Jack texts him.

_Can we talk?_

“Oh god,” Kent says and Eric stops describing the new quiche he made earlier.

“What's up, hon?”

Kent's finger hovers over the notification until it fades away.

“Jack wants to talk.”

The smile on Eric's face freezes into something more like a grimace.

“I don't want to talk to him, but. I guess I should.”

Eric blows his hair off his forehead. “You know I'm not gonna judge you if you don't. I run from these things, remember?”

Kent can't help his wince. “I'm still sorry about that. Okay, I'm gonna text him back.”

_yeah, sure_

The little dots appear immediately.

 _Your place or mine?_  
  
Ten years ago, those words would have made Kent dizzy with anticipation. Now, they make him vaguely nauseous.

“He wants to talk in person? Fuckin’....”

“Ugh,” Eric commiserates.

He thinks about it, thinks he rather be able to leave if he needs to than have to try and get Jack out of his hotel room, if it comes to that.

_yours_

Jack sends him an address and Kent says goodbye to Eric as he tugs on his clothes. He's dressed by the time the Uber gets there, but he's in no way ready to go.

The bile turns in his stomach and climbs into his throat for the entire ride and he can't swallow down the burn.

The front door swings open before Kent can even lift his hand to knock.

Jack looks good. Tired, of course, but the beard he's grown for the playoffs covers most of the sunkenness his face has developed from the weight everyone loses by the end of the season.

“Hey,” Kent croaks.

“Kenn-” Jack stops. Corrects himself. “Kent. I. You. Come in?” He's awkward and nervous, like he was when they were kids, and Kent hates them both for a minute. He steps past Jack into the foyer anyways.

“Would you like something to drink?” Jack asks, ever polite. “I don't have, I mean, I think there’s a bottle of wine? I threw most of what was here away when Bitty moved out.”

And Kent knows in an instant that Jack cleaned house because he couldn't trust himself, and it fucking aches.

“Water’s fine.”

Jack nods and leads him into the kitchen, pours them each a glass of water and sets them on the island.

Kent picks his glass up just to have something to do with his hands and promptly sets it back down when his shaking makes the water slosh about dangerously.

“I don't know where to start.”

“Well,” Kent says. “You can ask whatever you want but, fair warning, I'm gonna answer you. My therapist has been working with me on the lying. So.”

He's starting at Jack's chin because it's safer than meeting his eyes.

“How. Um. I guess, how did you guys get together?”

And Kent tells him, how they met, the friendship they built so slowly, how that melted into something else. Jack's face is completely blank but, when Kent glances up, his eyes are rimmed with red.

“Why did he leave in the first place? He never actually said anything, just that he was leaving.”

That's more than Kent got when Jack left, and he feels a flash of heat before it's tempered by sympathy.

“I don't know if that's the kind of thing I'm supposed to be the one to tell you.”

“Well, Bitty won't answer my calls. And I know you know.”

Kent sips his water, takes his time, tries to buy himself a few more seconds.

“He said everything was fine but, one day, he looked at you and knew he wasn't in love anymore.”

Kent hasn't seen Jack cry in almost 15 years and the first tear that slips down his cheek rips through Kent's chest like a shotgun blast.

“How do you just fall out of love with someone?”

“I mean, you fell out of love with me pretty quick.”

Jack's face goes tight and he's looking somewhere behind Kent instead of at him.

“Unless. Unless you were never in love with me in the first place.” It's not a question. The realization hurts, but not as bad as Kent would have thought, not as bad as it would have six months ago.

“I'm so sorry, Kenny.”

He lets the nickname slide.

“You know, we were kids. We were both fucked up, and we both did and said some stupid shit. We gotta forgive each other. And ourselves.”

Jack's mouth almost curves into a grin. “Sounds like the therapy’s working.”

“Sarahi saved my life, man,” Kent says. “Literally. Her and Jeff.”

“Troy?”

“Yeah. He's. God, he's been my best friend.”

“You're good on his wing.”

“Maybe better than I was on yours.”

Jack laughs at that, a real laugh that Kent can't help but echo.

“He's not helping your power play, though.”

Kent scoffs, faux offended. “Oh, hell no. You're really gonna shit on my PP right now?”

“I _am_.”

They talk hockey for a while, and it's not normal, but it's closer to it than they've been in a long time.

“Shit, it's late. I gotta get back before curfew.” Kent digs his phone out of his pocket to summon a ride.

They linger by the door making small talk until Kent sees a little white Kia pull up.

“I'll see you at the rink tomorrow,” Jack says, arms lifting in an abortive motion before he drops them back to his sides.

“Oh, bring it in, you big fucking lug.” Kent wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders.

Jack slowly winds his arms around Kent. “It was good to see you, Kenny.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah, you too.”

He texts Eric on the way back to the hotel.

_ that went surprisingly well _

Eric must have been waiting for an update because he texts back within seconds.

_tell me everything_

Kent does.

It's late when they're done and Kent can only keep his left eye open long enough to look at his phone. They've said their goodbyes when Kent decides he needs to send one more text.

_ you should talk to him. he needs closure. and maybe a friend, if you can give him that _

He sets his alarm and doesn't listen for the incoming text noise before falling asleep.

  
When he wakes up, he checks his phone.

_ I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. as soon as I am, though, I will _

That’s a start, at least.

The Aces lose the first game in Providence, barely, on Robinson’s goal late in the third.

During warm ups before the second game, Jack skates away from his team and stops next to Kent.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“I'm happy for you.”

Kent squints at him. “No, you're not.”

“I'm not. I'm really not. But.” The corner of Jack's mouth tugs down, like he's doing all he can to keep it together. “I'm trying to be. I want to be. About everything.”

He looks like he means it, is the thing, and Kent feels warm the whole way through.

“Thanks,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Jack gives his shoulder a squeeze before skating off to rejoin his team.

The game’s a close one. Both teams play extremely well, but the Aces second line connects in way it hadn’t been before, and they end the game up 4-3. Kent’s still floating from the win as he heads into the locker room.

If Kent thought the media were relentless in their Zimmermann-Parson furor before, he was mistaken. There's a swarm of reporters after the game, which is normal for the playoffs. But Kent had no goals in this game, no assists, and they're still all in front of his locker.

“Kent, Kent!” the guy from the Journal yells over the scrum, his tape recorder maybe two inches from Kent's face. “Everyone's talking about your interaction with Jack Zimmermann out on the ice. Can you tell us what he said to you?”

“I can,” Kent says with a grin. “But I won't.”

The swarm buzzes.

“What I can tell you is that Lindblom better ask for more money in his contract negotiations because his two goals tonight were clutch as hell, and the second one? That wrister? Was one of the most beautiful shots I've ever seen. Lindy!” he hollers over the crowd, waiting for the blond head to pop up.

“Sup, Cap?”

“You were a beaut tonight.”

Lindy smiles wide, almost goofy. “Thanks, Cap.”

Kent turns his attention back to the reporters. “Now. Y'all wanna talk about the game?”

Jeff chokes the next locker over.

“Shut your mouth, Troy.”

When he checks his phone later, there's a text from Eric that just says  _Y'aaaallllllll._

Kent sends back a snap of his middle finger, fully extended.

The series goes back to Vegas, and Eric gets someone to cover his shift so he can sit with Ali. He’s wearing Kent’s shirt this time, which is a move that Kent finds brave, stupid, and hot simultaneously. They lose in overtime because St. Martin has apparently decided that his farewell tour should include as many goals against the Aces as he can possibly score, the old bastard. Kent would be angrier if he hadn’t been a huge fan of the guy for years as a kid.

In Providence, the Aces win game six in a blowout that leaves Kent thinking maybe the last game won’t be so hard.

He’s wrong. He’s so wrong.

The game ties up in the second and stays that way through the third, through, overtime, through double overtime. By triple overtime, Kent can’t feel his right foot at all and he’s scared to blink because, every time he closes his eyes, he’s afraid he’s going to fall asleep. He’s exhausted, running on adrenaline and the unbridled fear of losing this game.

He scrambles over the boards with Jeff on the change and prays his legs don’t give out.

They’re maybe fifteen seconds into the shift when Kent looks ahead and sees that Jeff, Jeff’s got a clear shot. He dekes around Mashkov and sends the puck straight onto Jeff’s tape.

Jeff screams as the puck leaves his stick and Kent knows that whatever was holding his wrist together has given up the ghost. He doesn't even look to see if the puck goes in, just takes off to where Jeff is doubled over, wrist cradled against his body. He's almost there when the the goal horn goes off and the arena erupts in a cacophony of ecstatic noise. His brain hasn't even put it all together yet when someone jumps him from behind, knocks him to the ice in front of Jeff.

_They won._

There's roughly half a ton of hockey player piled on Kent and Jeff just outside the crease and Kent can't even catch his breath to cheer.

“Holy shit!” Lindy screams in his ear and Kent finally gets enough air to laugh.

He loves this team. He loves every single one of these guys so much it makes him sick.

Eventually he digs his way out of the pile and everyone lines up for handshakes. Kent's made a habit of never really looking at the guys whose hands he's shaking after games like this, doesn't want to see the loss in their eyes.

Tonight is no different.

He's almost to the end of the line when someone envelopes him in a hug.

Jack. Jack is hugging him.

“Congrats, Kenny,” he mutters into Kent's hair.

Kent hugs him back. “Hell of a series, dude. Hell of a series.”

Jack pulls back, hands on Kent's shoulders. “We'll get you next year, eh?”

Kent grins. “You wish.”

Bettman comes out amidst the chorus of boos that Kent’s never going to think isn’t hilarious. He ignores the speech in favor of mother-henning Jeff and his broken wrist. When the time comes to announce the Conn Smythe, he’s fairly certain who it’s going to.

Lindy’s face is glowing when they hand him the trophy, pure joy radiating from his entire body. Kent would say he’s never been prouder, but Lindy was his rookie. He’s been proud of that kid a lot.

They bring the Cup out and this, this Kent knows how to do. He stands next to Bettman, still red and sweating from the game, and his weary arms hoist it overhead as the crowd bellows. He skates to Jeff first, because he’s always going to skate to Jeff first, and helps him lift it with his good arm.

Someone crams a cap on his head and he turns it backwards on instinct before skating around to congratulate his guys.

By the time reporters start shoving microphones in his face, Kent's cheeks hurt from smiling. He's happy, truly happy, for the first time in longer than he can remember. He's got Eric, he and Jack are stumbling toward something good, and he's just won his third Stanley Cup.

He's on top of the fucking world.

He thinks. He thinks  _maybe_.

“Hey guys!” he hollers, and most of the team looks his way. “You mind if I make this all about me for a minute?”

“Oh shit!” Arnie yells over Jeff and Jensen chanting _do it do it do it._

  
He waves as many of the reporters over as he can, smile going wider and wider as he commandeers a microphone from a crew member.

“Hey, so, this is already pretty cool, yeah? Third Cup in ten years, damn. But. Uh.” He looks around at the crowd that's stayed to celebrate. “You guys wanna meet my boyfriend?”

Eric's been standing at the opening of the tunnel with Ali for company, waiting for Kent to come off the ice. His mouth drops open as the sound reaches a deafening level, even the guys on the ice cheering loudly.

The flash of cameras is overwhelming, but Kent skates over to beckon Eric out.

“So, this is Eric Bittle and he's the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Eric waves as Kent wraps an arm around his waist.

“What are you doing?” Eric whispers out of the side of his mouth.

“No idea. Probably should have asked if this was okay before I did it.”

“Probably,” Eric says, and Kent's stomach drops. “Don't worry, though. I don't mind.”

Kent breathes and turns to the still-buzzing crowd.

“I know you all have questions, but that's not happening right now. If my agent lets me live after pulling this stunt, there'll be a presser soon. Right now, I just want to celebrate with my team.”

Jonesy yells, “And your man!”

Kent laughs. “And my man.”

They all mill around, hugging and screaming in each other's faces because _holy shit._ Eric is standing so close, absolutely beaming.

Kent turns to face him. “Can I dip you at center ice?”

Eric stifles a laugh with his fist. “Goodness.”

“I'm gonna do it.”

He tugs Eric out to the middle, dips him down, and kisses him fiercely. Halfway through, Eric starts to giggle and they tumble to the ice.

Kent presses his forehead to Eric's. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

That kiss is going to be the front page of every paper tomorrow, Kent knows, and his agent is probably shitting himself right now. He's not going to look at his phone for at least three or four days.

Jeff kicks him gently in the side. “Get up, Cap. There’s some champagne in the locker room with your name on it.”

Kent's never going to get used to taking champagne to the eyes, but buying goggles always feels like tempting fate, so he's just gonna keep risking his eyesight for the foreseeable future.

He doesn't drink the way most of the guys do, but he's so drunk with happiness that it doesn't even matter. Arnie gets Eric to do a kegstand out of the Cup and then he's drunk for real, laughing too loud and clinging to Kent for stability.

As if Kent has any intention of letting him go.

The days leading up to the parade are a blur of dancing and drinking and heavy silver. Kent still hasn't answered his phone, has left it on the nightstand to die. He's pretty sure his agent calls Jeff, because Jeff answers his phone at club number six or seven, looks at Kent curiously, then tells whoever's on the phone to fuck off before shoving his phone back in his pocket.

The parade is something else. They were big the first two wins, sure, but this crowd is out of control. The Strip is packed solid like New Year’s Eve. Most of the crowd are in Aces colors. Some people are waving rainbow signs and Kent feels giddy with how thankful he is.

There's protesters, too. He knew there would be. But the real fans are drowning them out. Kent can only see them if he really tries, and he's not trying.

He’s in the back of a truck with Jeff and it feels so, so good to hold Eric’s hand and wave at the people screaming his name.

He looks at Eric, who's pink-cheeked and radiant as the sun, and thinks that everything he's gone through was worth it if it means he gets to have this now.

Jeff presses the cold bottom of his beer to the back of Kent's neck just to watch him squirm.

“You did good, kid,” he says.

And Kent thinks, yeah, maybe he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embarrassing [here](http://fadeastride.tumblr.com) on a daily basis.


End file.
